Epilogue
Three Months Later
The gallery opening is in full swing, and I still can’t believe it’s real.
La Galerie LaBete has a new home now—a sleek space carved out of the lower level of The Beast, all clean lines and dramatic lighting and Gabriel’s paintings glowing on the walls.
The art world lost its collective mind when the mysterious LaBete was revealed to be Gabriel Grimm, back from the dead.
Critics call it the story of the decade. Collectors call it a goldmine.
I call it a miracle.
Gabriel stands across the room, deep in conversation with a collector from Manhattan. He’s cleaned up for the occasion—charcoal suit, open collar, his dark hair actually combed. But that isn’t what makes my breath catch.
It’s the ease in his posture. The genuine smile. The way he gestures while he talks, animated and engaged, like he’s finally remembered what it feels like to be part of the world.
The beast is still there. Will always be there. But it’s quiet now. Content. Happy, even.
Harper appears at my elbow with two glasses of champagne. “You’re staring.”
“I’m allowed to stare. He’s mine.”
“That he is.” She hands me a glass and clinks hers against it. “You did good, Bella. Both of you.”
I look at the centerpiece of the exhibition—Caged and Free, hanging side by side. The woman trapped behind bars, and the woman standing in an open doorway, sunlight streaming around her, one hand extended toward the viewer.
The whole story, right there on the wall.
Later, after the guests have gone, after Travis and Anissa have spilled their congratulations all over us, and after Harper has made us promise brunch on Sunday—Gabriel leads me upstairs to the apartment he now uses only as a studio.
I expect him to tumble me onto the sofa. Instead, he takes me to the bathroom, where a straight razor, a brush, and a bowl of shaving cream sit waiting.
I look at him, confused. “Okay?”
“The beard was part of the armor.” He picks up the razor, turns it over in his hands. “Part of the disguise. I don’t need armor anymore.” He holds it out. “I want you to be the one who takes it off.”
My hands tremble as I take the blade. Not from fear, but from the weight of what he’s offering.
He sits on the edge of the tub. I work up a lather and begin.
Stroke by stroke, the beard falls away, revealing the jaw I remember.
The face I fell in love with all those years ago.
And the scar that had been partially hidden from me for months, now there for me to see, like all the wounds he’s shared with me.
When I’m done, I wipe away the last of the shaving cream and cup his bare face in my hands.
“There you are,” I whisper.
He pulls me onto his lap and kisses me. Not desperate. Not tentative. Something new. Something that tastes like the future.
“I love you, Izzy,” he murmurs against my mouth.
I smile, relishing the sound of the nickname, so casual on his lips. Like we’re back to normal now.
Like we’ve come home.
“I love you too,” I say. “Day by day, and every day.”
“Day by day,” he repeats, the words a whisper and a promise.
Outside, dawn is breaking over Atlantic City, painting the sky in shades of gold and possibility.
It isn’t the life I planned.
It’s better.
It’s ours.